It was the damp that bothered me first.
I’d bought Blackthorn Cottage for a song at a foreclosure auction—a crumbling Victorian on six acres of overgrown New Hampshire woodland. The realtor’s listing called it a “fixer-upper with character.” She didn’t mention the sulfur smell in the master bedroom, or the way the floorboards in the hallway creaked like something was pacing beneath them.
The previous owner, an elderly widow named Eleanor Voss, had died in the house. The neighbors told me she’d lived alone for 30 years, though the mailman swore he’d sometimes hear her arguing with a man’s voice through the walls. “Probably just the TV,” he’d shrugged.
I moved in on a crisp October afternoon. By sunset, I regretted it.
Week 1: The Rules
The house had rules. I learned them fast.
- Never close the basement door. It would swing open on its own, even with a deadbolt.
- Keep the fireplace lit after dark. The cold wasn’t natural—it clung like wet sheets.
- Don’t answer the piano.
That last one confused me until my first night. Around 2 AM, the antique Steinway in the parlor began playing itself: slow, discordant notes, like a child learning scales. When I crept downstairs, the keys were still vibrating.
I called a local contractor, Marty, to check for rodents. He found nothing—but refused to step foot in the basement. “Smells like a slaughterhouse down there,” he said, sweat beading on his neck.
Week 3: The Woman in the Mirror
I started seeing her in reflections—a gaunt figure in a moth-eaten dress, standing just behind me. By the time I’d turn, she’d vanish.
Then came the whispers.
“Mine…” in the attic. “Leave…” in the kitchen. Always in a raspy, wet-throated growl. My dog, a fearless German Shepherd, refused to enter the house after dark.
One sleepless night, I Googled Eleanor Voss. The archives spat back a 1982 Portsmouth Herald article:
LOCAL MAN VANISHES FROM BLACKTHORN COTTAGE
Robert Voss, 34, reported missing by wife Eleanor. Police found no signs of struggle, though neighbors reported “screaming” the night he disappeared…
The photo showed Eleanor—same sunken eyes as my mirror woman.
Week 5: The Basement
The smell worsened. Rot and iron.
I finally mustered the courage to descend the basement stairs, flashlight shaking in my grip. The beam caught something glinting in the dirt floor—a gold wedding band. Engraved inside: *R + E 1979*.
Then the door slammed shut above me.
The whispers became a chorus. “MINE MINE MINE.” Something scraped across the floor—a shovel?—as the temperature plummeted. I smashed the basement window with a rock and crawled out, arms bleeding.
Week 6: The Truth
I hired a forensic team. They found Robert Voss’s remains under six feet of basement dirt, his skull split by a blunt object. Eleanor had buried him there after a fight over an affair, then lived with his ghost for decades.
But here’s what the papers didn’t report:
When they hauled Robert’s bones out, the whispers stopped. The piano stayed silent.
But now, when I light the fireplace, the smoke curls into shapes—a man’s face, screaming. And sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see Eleanor standing at the top of the basement stairs…
…holding the shovel.
Epilogue
I moved out last month. The new owners texted me yesterday: “We LOVE the cottage! Though our toddler keeps talking about ‘the angry lady who hums.’ Probably just her imagination :)”
I didn’t reply.
Engage With Me!
Would you have stayed in Blackthorn Cottage? Share your theories about Eleanor and Robert in the comments—and if you’ve ever lived in a haunted house, tell your story!
For more real-life horror, check out my investigation into The Conjuring House or How to Spot a Haunted Property*.
